33. Klein
“It’s notthat I want you to stop saying that,” I inform her, staring into her eyes, the prettiest shade I’ve ever seen. “It’s that I want you to stop thinking when I say something you like, it should be attributed to that.”
Color gathers in her cheeks. “I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing.”
“It’s a defense mechanism.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“What is it that needs defending against me?”
Clearly, and with confidence, she says, “My heart.”
The very same organ that sits in my chest begins to squeeze. I wish Paisley could feel what she does to me. I wish she could know the way she’s marked me, changed me, the way watching her struggle with her family torments me, how deeply I want to shake them all and tell them they’re hurting the best person I know.
“Paisley,” I center our faces so there is little else in our fields of vision. I need her to not only hear my next words, but absorb them, too. “There is no safer place for your heart than with me.”
She moans, a tiny garbled noise. “Klein, I can’t stop thinking about you.” Her words carry the softness and fragility of a confession, and perhaps that’s what it is.
My hold on her tightens. “You occupy every one of my thoughts, and my dreams, too.”
In response, Paisley’s thighs squeeze me. She arches, pushing her breasts into me. “Show me what you think about.”
I capture her mouth and walk us backward to the bed, lowering her when we get there. Her dress rides up her legs, giving me the shortest glimpse of her tattoo.
My hand runs up her thigh, pushing the fabric higher. Using a fingertip, I trace the word written in cursive.
Attraversiamo.
“What does it mean?” I lean down, brush my lips on the inked flesh.
Paisley squirms, fingernails raking through my hair. “It’s Italian for ‘let’s cross over.’ It’s a way to describe transition or movement. I got it after my first year of business, when I went to Italy for two weeks.” Her nails leave my hair, swooping over my neck. “I paid for the trip myself, and I was proud of that. It felt big, like I’d made the transition to adulthood. I’d done it on my own, the way I wanted to. I had defied my father, and my natural inclination to please, and it wasn’t for nothing.”
I stare down at her, unable to keep the wonder from my eyes. “You are something else, Paisley. Something really fucking special.”
My lips drop to her thigh, to that word. Attraversiamo.
The tip of my tongue traces the cursive. I look up, my mouth still pressed to her skin. Paisley looks at me, eyelashes fluttering.
“Klein,” she says, but there’s nothing else after it. Not a request. Nor a question. Only my name, because she can. Because she wants to.
I suck at her thigh, at the tattoo, drawing the skin into my mouth and biting down. She gasps, and her hand finds my hair again. My mouth drops from her thigh, sliding down a hill, to that place where my fingers explored earlier. Her thighs, still locked together, form a ‘v.’
Sitting up, I look down at her closed eyes. “Paisley, if you want me in here, you’re going to have to open up for me.”
Her eyes open. Gaze on mine, she parts.
Settling between her knees, I run my hands up her thighs, watching them disappear under the hem of her dress. Higher I push, until the fabric settles at her hip bones.
I stare down at her, exposed for me. “Now that,” I say, appreciating the light pink lace.
Paisley smiles. “That is underwear worthy of removing.”
Hooking my fingers into the waistband, I tug them down her body. They were pretty while they lasted.
And there, right fucking there, is my paradise.
“So pretty,” I admire, a blush of crimson stealing over Paisley’s cheeks.
Settling in, I press my mouth where I want it. Where Paisley wants it. Hidden in the pantry earlier, we were short on time. Now I have her on her back in a big, soft bed, and I take my time. Her fingernails scrape my scalp until it’s too much and she cups a hand over her mouth to muffle her mewling. Her hips buck, and I press a forearm low over her stomach to keep her in place.
One pass over her. Then another. A lazy drag, a roll. A slow circle that has her thigh muscles tensing, and then I suction my mouth to her until her body bows off the bed. Thigh muscles quaking, she remains silent while her bucking body screams for her.
“I wish you could see how beautiful you look,” I say when I sit up. Her hair swirls around her head, her cheeks are the loveliest dark pink.
“If it’s anything like the way you looked when I took your mind off the pain, then I already know.”
“And you call me the wordsmith.”
She smirks. “That mouth of yours has many talents.”
“For my next act...” Sliding my hands in the waistband of my shorts, I push them down swiftly.
Paisley’s eyes are glued to the part of me that springs forth. “I don’t have condoms. I wasn’t expecting anything like this to occur.”
“I brought some.”
Paisley feigns surprise. “Klein Madigan. How dare you make such assumptions about a lady.”
“Precautions,” I clarify, grabbing my shorts. I stowed one foil packet away in my wallet before the party. “No expectations.”
Sitting back on my knees, I guide the condom onto my length. Paisley, propped on her elbows, watches me. The low light from the bedside lamp spills a deep yellow over the bed, and over Paisley.
She reaches for me, and I settle myself into the cradle of her hips. Lowering my mouth, I take one pert, pink nipple between my lips. Continuing on with the theme of taking my time, I sink into the task, cupping one breast while I work on the other. Paisley grows impatient beneath me, and I smile.
She releases a feminine growl of frustration, and I smile wider. It’s adorable.
Paisley reaches between us. Her grip locks onto me, positioning me right where I need to go, and she says, “Please.”
Is there anything I like better than hearing that word on Paisley’s lips? Right now, nothing comes to mind.
She gasps when I press inside, her chest rising with her inhale. Trailing kisses over her collarbone, up her neck, and finally, to her mouth. I set a tempo that is not fast nor slow, but something in between. Paisley likes it. She folds her legs so they parallel our bodies, her fingers running up my back and into my hair.
“Look at me,” I ground out.
Ocean blue gazes into forest green.
It is only me, and her.
Her hands on my back, kneading at the muscles.
The tiny droplets of sweat gathering in crevices.
The slickness of our bodies.
“It’s never been this good,” Paisley whispers, her body rising up to meet mine. “Why haven’t we been doing this for the past eight years?”
My hips roll with hers, her breasts tumbling with the movement. “Because we are very, very stupid.”
Paisley laughs, and it makes her walls clench.
I draw back and sit up, pulling Paisley up with me. She sinks onto me, knees on either side.
My lips are on her neck. “The lights are on, so I can watch you this time.”
Paisley nods, guiding my hand between her legs. I do as she silently asks, and she treats me to a show. Her hands on my shoulders, head tipped back, nipples scraping my chest, and just like I said earlier, I get to watch her eyes roll back in her head.
“Beautiful,” I groan, nuzzling her neck as the pulsing and quaking of her muscles subside.
She clenches around me, lifting her hips before dropping them down, and presses her lips to mine. She is directing the show, leading me there.
Primal, raw, shared breath and slick bodies. There’s no one else in this house. On this island. It’s only us. We’re not kissing, but her mouth moves over mine in tandem with where we connect.
The edge nears, rising up. Paisley jerks, squeezing me, silencing her cries. It catapults me to the end, and now she kisses me, and I kiss her back, and I don’t know what we’ve done or what we’re doing, or what we may have started.
I only know that Paisley feels perfect in my arms, and perfect in my chest, and for now that is enough.